


still your hands and still your heart (all the morning glows anew)

by troiing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Florists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25137703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: Yennefer just came here for some flowers for a friend, but the woman behind the counter issmirking, and her lips are pretty, and there's a dimple in her left cheek and, okay, she might be a little smitten. Just a bit. Actually, 'a bit' is somewhat generous; in reality, her synapses are pretty much completely fried.Or, the florist!au i said i wouldn't write.
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 62
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in a rut, so here's a short chapter to get us going on this AU i guess? It was gonna be a one-shot, but... well. Things are getting away from me. Jaskier wasn't supposed to be here? It's just a mess. Enjoy.
> 
> I never thought i'd be typing a text messaging exchange, and i solemnly swear never to do it again.
> 
> (No betas, we die like the exhausted writers we are)

Yennefer is going to be late. She’s going to be late and, moreover, she’s going to arrive empty-handed. Which, up until now, she didn’t think was so bad in the end, but it's the last minute and she's having a _moment_ and if she’s showing up to a friend’s degree ceremony, shouldn’t she have, like… a card? At least? She’s really beginning to rethink her lack of planning, and actually starting to fret a bit about whether or not it’s a social faux pas to come to a commencement with only yourself and a ‘well done, you.’

It’s then that she spots the little florist’s shop ahead on her left, and flowers are a little pricey, probably (maybe? she doesn’t really know, because she doesn’t make a habit of buying them), but surely she can find something inexpensive that will make her look slightly less tacky going in? At any rate, she can see some small, ready-made arrangements in the window of the shop, which seems promising.

And that’s how one Yennefer Vengerberg finds herself inside DeVries Flowers and Arrangements, a little bell over the door heralding her entrance; the woman at the counter to her left spares an absent ‘ _good morning_ ’ and little more. Yennefer does not return the greeting.

To say she gives much consideration at all to the bouquets in front of her is, perhaps, too generous. She very quickly opts for a sheath of flowers in purple, white, and yellow, because the purple is quite pretty and the she figures the yellow adds a bright bounce of happy colour and she hasn’t really sorted out when it’s appropriate to give roses and if the colour matters at all, so this seems like a solid bet. Probably.

With the flowers and her purse strap both held haphazardly in her left hand, she shuffles through the contents of her purse with her free one. As she’s doing this, the woman says in an unexpectedly sympathetic tone: “My condolences.”

Yennefer successfully digs out a few crumpled notes just as she processes the words. Condolences? She frowns slightly, peering up at the woman. This is her first real look at her, and it stops her in her tracks: she’s poised on the other side of the counter looking across at Yennefer, eyes a shocking blue above the rim of her spectacles and the arrangement of peach-coloured roses she’s up to her elbows in; her pale skin and eyes are stark counterpoint to the bob of warm brown hair swept neatly away from her face and behind her ears; she’s all cheekbones and pointed chin; her lips curl upward at the edge, though her expression is a neutral mask. For a moment, Yennefer forgets what's happening, forgets that the woman has spoken. She wets her lips.

And then she remembers. The problem is, _remembering_ doesn't really provide any clarity.

She blinks, coming back to herself, but then frowns, squinting a bit in thought as she gapes. “Erm?” she finally says dumbly, helplessly, locking eyes with the other woman and fumbling with the strap of her purse.

The woman actually looks a bit caught out; she offers an apologetic smile, a bare hint of a flush colouring her pale cheeks. “I don't mean to pry. The chrysanthemums are typically a clear tell.”

At any other time, such cryptic remarks might have made Yennefer scowl at the speaker. As it happens, the speaker is much too pretty to scowl at, or even to easily form coherent thought around. Her brain seems to be behaving very sluggishly on all fronts that aren't _god she's gorgeous_ at the moment. She's pulling herself back together though, picking up the pieces as her eyes wander along the somewhat older woman's very pronounced jaw. Condolences? Clear tells?

Realization hits her hard enough that she very nearly throws the bouquet across the counter. “Fuck!” she cries thoughtlessly, cringing at the word. Nobody ever accused her of being particularly good at code-switching. “Sorry! Shit!” _Fuck!_ “No, that's—” The woman's eyebrows have moved so high up her face, Yennefer will be at fault if she loses them forever to space, and she's pretty sure she's still holding onto a bouquet of death flowers. Flowers for dead people. Whatever.

“I take it no one’s died, then?” she asks evenly as Yennefer pulls herself together again; now the edges of her mouth are pressed into a suppressed smirk, and there’s a dimple on the left side of her face and she’s adorable and _fuck_ she’s making fun of her and Yennefer can’t even be bothered to be mad about it. Just horrified about the death flowers. “Chrysanthemums _are_ used almost exclusively for funeral arrangements.”

“No! I'm going to a degree ceremony! Shit, are people just supposed to know that?”

“I had thought it was common knowledge, yes,” is the somewhat careful reply.

Yennefer rolls her eyes, but taps out a nervous tattoo against the ground with her toe.

There’s the barest moment of silence before the woman asks, “May I make a recommendation?”

“Gods, please yes.”

“There should be some red roses where you found these,” the woman says without hesitation, fingers brushing across the paper surrounding the flowers Yennefer is quickly coming to identify exclusively as ‘death bouquet.’

Roses. The one thing she was making a point to avoid. She gives the woman a doubtful look. “Really?”

“Roses aren't just for romances, if that's what you're thinking. Go on. The true red, not the dark ones.”

As the woman busies herself again with the arrangement in front of her, Yennefer trudges back over to the display of ready-made bouquets. She makes sure to bring the first bouquet back with her, gingerly stowing them in the bucket they came out of before eyeing a display of roses. She bites her lip, gazing between two reds, and yeah, she definitely associates those dark red ones with Valentine’s or something, so she picks the medium red ones the woman recommended. There aren’t quite a dozen of them, which, she’s not sure what the actual significance of a dozen is, and they’re only about a quid more than the other bouquet so… fine. She can handle that. Though if she’s honest, she’s also seen red roses like this at funerals so the whole thing is very confusing and she’s actually realising she sort of hates flowers. Bouquets, anyway. Flowers growing in parks and fields and gardens are great! Getting to look at them is one of the best parts of her sometimes mind-numbing job in Parks and Recreation! But all these flowers with special meanings shoved into fancy arrangements for specific occasions?

Okay, so she doesn’t _hate_ them; they’re still very pretty. She’s just not sure what to do with the culture behind them. Something. She’s just… she’s in way over her head.

Seeming to sense her unease, the woman behind the counter smiles slightly as she extracts herself from the arrangement once more. It’s more in her eyes than her mouth, but her lips are very pretty and _wow_ not this again. She just came in here for some flowers for a friend and each and every one of her sensibilities is being attacked by a fucking _beautiful_ woman and what the hell is she supposed to do with this? To say the smile short-circuits her brain again a bit is somewhat generous. In reality, her synapses are pretty much completely fried.

“Do you have a moment?”

“Yeah, sure,” Yennefer answers automatically, even though she most certainly does not have a moment; she has, like, negative five moments. But the woman is already snipping through the twine on the bouquet and unfolding the brown paper and she has _very_ pretty wrists and her nails are trimmed short and, yep, that’s the last of Yen’s brain cells! As the woman turns away from her and to the back counter, flowers in tow, Yennefer reminds herself that plenty of women who use their hands— _not like that_ —have short fingernails, and short fingernails and smirks do not flirting make.

That sentence didn’t even make sense in her _own,_ head.

“I’m no expert in the Victorian _language of flowers_ ,” the woman is saying, a dismissive wave of her hand over the end of the sentence indicating that perhaps she doesn’t care to be one either, “ _but_ , red and yellow roses together typically mean ‘ _Congratulations_.’”

Apparently talking herself down has taken Yennefer longer than she realised, because suddenly the bouquet is in front of her again, wrapped neatly in paper with bright yellow blooms peeking out from between the red. It’s very pretty, and also a bit confusing. “Thank you,” she remembers to say, words stilted as she gazes at the bouquet in bewilderment. “But they’re just… _flowers_ ,” she can’t help herself from observing belatedly.

When she looks up at the other woman, amusement flashes across her face; her lips are twisted into another smirk. “I practically grew up in this shop,” she remarks after a beat, holding out a hand for Yennefer’s crumpled notes. “Something I learned young: a flower is rarely _just_ a flower.”

Yennefer doesn’t even realise until she walks through the doors for the ceremony with about fifteen seconds to spare that the woman didn’t charge her for the additional flowers.

* * *

It's early in the evening and Yennefer has just pulled together a quick, post-work dinner for herself when her phone chimes with the most annoying notification she could find while setting it up. Which means it's Jaskier with some inane gossip or other. She shovels a mouthful of pasta into her mouth on the way to the den, slipping her phone out of her back pocket as she lowers herself onto the sofa.

> So I scouted out your lady love.

Yennefer scowls down at her phone, resting it on the arm of the sofa and stabbing absent-mindedly at the pasta with her fork. What is that even supposed to mean? When no answer comes to mind after several contemplative bites, she sets her bowl down on the cushion next to her, thumbs tomato sauce from the corner of her lips, and taps out a quick reply.

> Excuse me?

Yen turns sideways, crosses her legs in front of her, and balances her dinner haphazardly over her crossed ankles while waiting for the reply.

> You know, blue eyes, spectacles, WAY too old for you? (hot if you’re into ancient brunettes with sticks up their asses though)

Yennefer freezes mid-bite, realising. Shit. So maybe she'd mentioned the flower shop lady after the degree ceremony. Made the mistake of doing so, it seems. It's just she was _hot_ , and helpful, and had given her flowers for free. (Yennefer had pointedly avoided sharing the bit about the whole death flowers fiasco, of course.) She’d thought about the encounter a bit on Sunday—there wasn’t much _else_ to do, after all—but the busy work day today had all but driven the bespectacled woman from DeVries’ from her mind.

She can't imagine why Jaskier would have seen fit to _scout her out_. What does that even mean? And what the _fuck_ does he mean by all that ancient, stick-up-her-ass rubbish? She’s incensed on the woman’s behalf, honestly. She huffs out a breath, and opts for a reply that doesn’t sound like she’s smitten. Because she isn’t. Although now that she’s thinking about her again, her eyes really had been a lovely blue—and her _wrists_!

> Wait. Jaskier, i was in her shop for like 5 minutes!

> Yeah but you were practically gushing about her

She was not! Was she? Surely not. She swallows another bite of her deliciously carb-laden meal, then sighs and changes the subject.

> What did you do?

That, after all, is the vital question.

> Oh, you know. went in to buy a bouquet for a lovely lady, put on a little Jaskier charm while I was there... And she definitely did NOT offer ME free flowers. I'm affronted honestly. Also she was NOT interested in my wooing, which can only mean one thing!

> That you aren't as charming as you think you are?

Yennefer types this message plainly ignoring the fact that she also probably wouldn’t flirt with someone who was clearly buying flowers for a romantic interest, or respond well to flirting from said person. Who did that? If anything that was probably like, a clear indicator that the woman respected herself enough not to be a side-piece or something. Definitely not a clear sign she’s gay, which is definitely what Jaskier’s trying to get at.

> Oh well fine, if that's how it is…

Yennefer waits, somewhat patiently because her pasta is getting cold and the radio silence gives her the opportunity to scarf some more of it down. After a few minutes, however, it becomes plain that Jaskier is not going to break and share more details without some prodding. And she knows Jaskier well enough to know that ‘she didn't like my flirting’ isn't all he has to say. He's a menace, but he's a useful one. Usually.

> Jask?

she sends, and gives it a minute. 

> Oh come on Jaskier

She's finished her pasta.

> Jaskier!

> See how much you like when I'm not up to my shenanigans? Anyway she's definitely gay, and I'm not just saying that because she was immune to my charms!

> What exactly makes you the leading expert on women's sexualities again?

> Easy, in this relationship you're the disaster bi and I'm the competent bi

Okay, no way. Yennefer shuffles back into the kitchen, shoves her dishes into the sink, and taps out the kindest reply she can think of.

> You're SOMETHING anyway

> I'll take that as a compliment!

Which, of course he would.

> ALSO she can't have been more than 40

She's not sure why she feels the need to point this out.

> And you're a fresh-faced babe out of the womb! Besides, i thought you were only in there for 5 minutes

> I'm almost 30 Jask.

> In dog years!

> I'M LITERALLY 27.

> You tell yourself whatever you need to babe. All I'm saying is she's old and mean. Probably killed at least one husband after marrying him for his money or for appearances or something. Just saying. She's hot sure but she has that look about her

Yennefer rolls her eyes.

> So that's all you messaged me to say? In your not very humble opinion, she's gay, and also probably a black widow?

> Oh babe, you know me better than that

> Then spill!

> Her name’s Tissaia and she's the owner. Also, 99% certain she's single, and not just because she was an ice queen. So go bag a bag I guess

Yennefer… really doesn't want to know what kind of snooping he's responsible for to come to such a conclusion. If any. Doesn't matter.

> Right. Good night, Jaskier. Thanks, or whatever

> Nigh-nigh, babes~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! Tissaia pov!

To say Yen’s been looking for an excuse to drop back by the florist’s would… well, it’d be true, wouldn’t it? No events that might call for flowers rear their heads any time soon, however, so eventually she pops over to Sainsbury’s (not her usual grocery stop, but _totally not chosen_ for its proximity to Tissaia’s shop either) and, on her way back home, parks her bike outside of the shop window decorated with pails of boldly-coloured blooms and makes her way inside.

The bell tinkles to announce her entrance. Tissaia is behind the counter again, this time facing away; she cranes her neck around to glance over her shoulder as Yen pauses near the entry. Now that she’s here, some of her certainty has faded. What exactly should she do? Just… grab a bouquet of not-death flowers and go? 

While she's pondering, Tissaia turns about with a hint of a smile playing at her lips. “How did the roses go over, then?” she asks. Yen’s taken slightly off guard by how easily Tissaia recognises her, but she _had_ nearly thrown a bouquet across the counter at the poor woman, so maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise. She’s not sure whether this is a good or bad thing. But the florist seems legitimately interested, despite that Yen has the sense she's being made fun of too. It's a gentle barb though, not mean-spirited, and the heat that creeps up her cheeks is short-lived.

“Yeah, great,” she replies lamely. “Really great.” 

Oh. Oh, that was horrible. She grips the edge of one of the buckets holding a display of premade bouquets. Well, fuck.

But Tissaia doesn't miss a beat—just smiles with her eyes (she's lovely, just lovely) and says “I'm glad,” like she's forgotten she gave Yen half the flowers for free. Maybe she has? Yennefer swallows. “What brings you back?”

Again, she finds herself hesitating, drumming her fingers gently against the bucket of arrangements. “Nothing specific?” _Come on, Yen._ “Actually, being in here and, er, and all that… made me think it'd be nice to have some fresh flowers on the table.” Which is the only excuse she's been able to come up with. And she _does_ like flowers—touring the parks from time to time is the best thing about her job—but she can't really see _paying_ to put flowers on her table. She's here now though, so she might as well go through with it.

“As good a reason as any,” Tissaia remarks. “Sainsburys’ selection not up to snuff?”

Yennefer follows Tissaia's gaze to the curb, where a grocery bag sits in her bike basket overflowing with the greens from a bunch of carrots. She flushes a little. The grocery _does_ have a fairly impressive display of flowers.

“Oh. Well. Support British farmers, buy British blooms!” she replies, gesturing to a sign over the display she's standing beside, advertising the stems for sale as British-grown. There's a _’Thank you for buying local’_ sign hanging in the window, so she figures this is also as good an answer as any.

It seems to appease the florist, whose smile returns just enough to form that delightful dimple in her left cheek. 

Buoyed by Tissaia's approval, Yennefer ambles towards the counter, thumb sliding absently beneath the strap of her bag. “Recommend anything?”

The woman actually seems taken off her guard by this question. A crease forms between her eyebrows, and Yennefer barely knows her—doesn't know her at all, really—but she's desperate to reach out and smooth it away. “A recommendation?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I think it would be nice to have something new every week, don't you?”

 _Every week_ is a commitment she did _not_ intend to make when she walked in.

Tissaia makes a thoughtful sound, looking Yennefer over as if sizing her up. Yennefer can't resist glancing down at herself, frowning at her apparel. She's wearing black skinny jeans and a white shirt—nothing fancy, but she'd like to think she doesn't look like a slob either. It's simple, casual, but not _not_ nice. She looks up again, brows knit; the breath nearly leaves her when she meets Tissaia's gaze. Her expression is intent, brows arched now, blue eyes bright behind her spectacles—different spectacles than last time, Yennefer notes belatedly, blue-framed to match the rich azure of her blouse.

She's fucking magnificent, and Yennefer is just beginning to wonder if this, standing across the counter from her, gravitating toward the blue eyes and the thoughtfully-twisted lips until she's touching the wood, is a dream when the woman speaks again.

“What colours do you like?”

And that... seems like an awfully _simple_ question to be asking after such a focused examination, but Yennefer doesn't ask questions.

Instead, she shrugs one shoulder. “Purple?”

Tissaia wets her lips, then favours her lower lip thoughtfully as she continues to study Yennefer for a moment, this time in a more perfunctory manner. Yennefer feels her breath try to hitch, her heart speed up. Does she look at everyone like this? Because it’s intense and wonderful and a little overwhelming and _holy shit_ is everyone who walks into this place in love with her? Is it even _remotely_ fucking possible that she’s single? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier’s been wrong. Regardless, she’s like some kind of goddess and all the staring is doing something to Yennefer’s insides.

But she’s a pretty good actress, and she’d like to think her expression holds. Mostly. Somewhat.

At the very least, she manages to resist gulping audibly. 

“Grape hyacinth?”

The sudden question catches Yennefer off guard, and she blinks rapidly to shake herself out of her thoughts. “Erm?”

Okay, so it’s time to admit that… what she knows about plants basically amounts to what she needs to know for her job. And what she _needs_ to know is usually related to, _‘No, you idiot, you must NOT plant daffodils in the dog park!’_ Most of these things, she has learned during her several years of experience in Parks and Recreation. There’s a list in her head of plants that should not be part of the landscape in a playground, plants that are invasive and should be removed on-sight or observed carefully, and so on.

Grape hyacinths are not on any of her mental checklists that she can think of, so she’s left feeling a bit dumb and incredibly out of her league.

Thankfully, Tissaia just gives her a knowing smile and moves to the end of the counter before coming around into the main body of the shop. When she does, Yennefer does a double-take; the area behind the counter is obviously raised a good few inches, because _fuck_ Tissaia is _tiny_. At first, she doesn't register the nod Tissaia gives her to follow; she's too busy adjusting to the fact that, even in heels (albeit modest ones) the woman probably only comes up to her nose—and Yennefer isn't particularly tall herself. 

She stands there dumbly for a moment before her brain finally wires the message down to her feet, at which point she closes the distance between herself and the other woman. Yep, definitely about nose-high. Tissaia is looking through the bouquets with interest, fingers splayed out, skimming over the cellophane wrappings around the bouquets with a thoughtful frown. Yennefer glances between the woman’s hand and her face before settling on studying her in profile.

She’s still looking, committing the subtle upturn of her nose to memory, when Tissaia chooses a bouquet and pulls it from the bucket with a self-satisfied smile.

“Here,” she says, fingers dancing over a towering blue-violet bloom. It’s tucked into a bouquet of similarly coloured blossoms with a few small splashes of white interspersed, and it _is_ quite pretty, although Yennefer isn’t certain the bouquet itself is quite to her tastes. “More blue than purple, but they’re going out of season soon.”

“Are they?” Yennefer asks, mostly just to ask. Tissaia’s voice is like something out of a dream, the low, almost gravelly undertone playing against a higher, bright timbre that makes her keen to listen to it for hours.

“Mm,” Tissaia confirms, glancing over at Yennefer and giving her a smile. “But these aren’t quite right for you,” she observes, tilting the bouquet toward Yennefer slightly. “Not enough contrast. Right?”

Strangely, Yennefer thinks she is. For some reason, she feels a little caught out; her eyes widen, then she offers a self-deprecating chuckle under the weight of the other woman’s blue, blue eyes. “How did you, um…?”

“You’ve been wearing nothing but black and white both times I’ve seen you,” Tissaia replies with a slight shrug, a trace of a smile playing again at her lips. “Simple. Dramatic.” Her voice clips on those two words, and Yennefer can’t quite keep herself from biting her lip in reply. Tissaia doesn’t seem to notice, just glances out the window for a moment, then back again before asking: “Anything perishable in that basket?”

“Um. No?”

“The Ornithogalum is going out of season too,” she says, fingers hovering over the cluster of small, white flowers in another bouquet. “Have you got five minutes?”

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely.” This time, it’s true. She’s got nowhere to be, and what’s in her shopping is mostly cans or fresh produce, and none of that will suffer for another five or ten minutes in the spring air.

“Alright.” Tissaia seems pleased with the answer, and turns her attention back to the flowers in front of her again for a moment. “Ah. These, I like,” she says suddenly, plucking a different bouquet out and replacing it with the one previously in her hand. The grape hyacinths in the bouquet are a darker, deeper violet, and Yennefer finds she likes them too.

She stops paying attention to precisely what Tissaia is doing after a moment though, because suddenly she seems laser-focused on her task, and the thoughtful tug at the edge of her lips is adorable, and it’s just much more satisfying to watch her face than to try and figure out exactly where she’s going with this.

After a moment, she turns back towards the counter, and Yennefer steps back to let her pass. She moves quickly, but easily, and even though she’s wearing heels they barely seem to make a sound on the tile floor. Yennefer follows, leaning over the counter to watch as the woman lays three bouquets across the back counter, withdraws snips and a small knife from the drawer below her, and sets to work.

“I’m Yennefer, by the way. Yen.”

Tissaia glances over her shoulder, then turns so that her hip is resting against the counter, body angled away from her work surface as she offers Yennefer a twitch of a smile. “Tissaia.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” 

A broader smile flashes across her lips and into her eyes for just a moment before Tissaia turns her attention back to the stems in front of her. “What do you do, Yennefer?”

Yennefer breathes relief at the woman’s willing small-talk. “I work for Parks and Recreation, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m mostly just a pencil-pusher, but.”

“Nonsense; it’s important work. The Parks department provides valuable infrastructure, aids in the preservation of native flora and fauna…” She pauses suddenly, glancing over at Yennefer again with a somewhat abashed look on her face. “Sorry; you know all that already, don’t you?”

Yennefer can’t help but grin, watching, entranced, as the handful of blooms in Tissaia’s fist begins to take the shape of a proper bouquet again. “Yeah, but it’s nice to know that someone on the outside thinks so. Sometimes it looks like everybody’s forgotten about us.” She says this in a light, bantering tone, but there’s truth to it, too; as far as infrastructure goes, it feels like Parks is one of the first programs to lose funding, every time. But maybe she's biased.

“Hm. Well, _I_ appreciate what you do.”

Yennefer’s grin broadens; she probably looks ridiculous, but at this point she doesn’t much care. Just leans a little further over the counter for a closer look at Tissaia’s deft movements. “What about you? I take it this is a family business?” She remembers Tissaia saying she practically grew up in the shop, figures it must be true.

“What? Oh. Yes. Three generations. Although I’ll admit, taking the shop over was never part of my plan. My parents knew it, too.” She tilts her head to the side slightly, eyes soft. “Call me sentimental, but when they decided to retire, I couldn’t let it go.”

“What _was_ the plan?” asks Yennefer, genuinely interested now.

Tissaia arcs a brow at her as she snips a bit of twine from a roll, moving to the front counter to study Yennefer’s face again for a moment. Apparently satisfied, her attention turns back to the bouquet, where her hands deftly wrap and tie the twine.

“I’m a botanist,” she says, yielding and easy as you please. Yennefer blinks in surprise; but of course she’s an academic. _Of course._ She really ought not be so shocked. “So while I can’t tell you what most of the flowers in the shop _mean_ , I _can_ give you most of their scientific names.” She smiles again at that, distant, as if she’s remembering a joke. “Sadly, not the most useful skill a florist could have.”

The crinkling of paper interrupts the background quiet of the room suddenly as Tissaia folds over a long sheaf cut from the roll behind her, and Yennefer’s quiet for a moment as the woman deftly bundles the bouquet up, tying it with another bit of twine. “You seem to be doing alright from where I’m standing,” Yennefer remarks.

Tissaia passes over the bundle as if on cue, brows lifted, a slight smirk playing at her mouth. The dimple is there again, wrecking all of Yennefer’s sensibilities, so she turns her attention down to the bouquet and studies it instead. It’s a much safer subject, and what Tissaia has done with different elements from three bouquets is astounding. The grape hyacinth stems serve as focal points amidst the clusters of bright white flowers, as well as some heavily scented white buds with rich green foliage. Somehow, the woman has her pinned, because while the first bouquet she’d shown Yennefer hadn’t much been to her tastes, this is dramatic and lovely and precisely her style.

“I mean… wow,” she says, breaking the silence between them before glancing up again to meet Tissaia’s eye.

The woman gives her a look like the cat who got the cream, coy and subtly playful and absolutely _delicious_ , then sweeps some detritus off the counter and into her hand.

“The buds should open around the same time the others begin to die off,” she says suddenly, nodding towards the bouquet as she wipes her hands and moves for the register. “So it will last. And you’ve got pretty much the last of my stock of _Muscari armeniacum_ , so enjoy."

“That’s the grape hyacinth,” Yennefer observes for clarity’s sake, hesitating a little.

“Mm-hm.”

She wants to ask more questions, wants an excuse to remain behind, but the bell above the door sounds again as a customer walks through, so Yennefer pays, thanks the woman again, and leaves, bouquet balanced carefully in the basket beside her groceries.

Yennefer’s not really a flowers and rose gold aesthetic sort of girl, but there’s something very satisfying about the fresh flowers balanced in her basket. She snaps a photo, because she can, and because her Insta followers will love it (call her shallow), and sets off home.

* * *

A few days later, the back door opens unexpectedly as Tissaia is wiping down the countertops after closing up shop. She’s lost in thought—glances up, startled, to see a sleepy-looking but cheerful Triss standing in the doorway.

“Hey, you,” she says brightly, stepping up behind the counter and closing the distance between them.

When she leans down, Tissaia obliges her, grasping Triss’ arms and pressing a kiss to the younger woman’s cheek as Triss does the same.

“You’re back earlier than expected,” she observes. “I was just finishing up.”

“Yeah! We had a nice tail-wind coming back, I guess, and Customs was… weirdly quiet?” Triss shrugs at this, frowning thoughtfully. “I mean, it wasn’t _quiet_ but it was way easier to get through than last time I flew back, so I’m probably, like, cursed for every future trip overseas.”

“That’s good,” Tissaia replies to the first bit, choosing to ignore the second.

She would be content to leave it there, but Triss rarely is. Without missing a beat, she shifts gears. “What were you day-dreaming about?”

“Hm? Nothing. Just thinking.”

She’s back to wiping the counters now, but Triss snorts in disapproval, spinning around to fetch the broom. “You never get that glassy-eyed look, Tissaia, not even when you’re thinking about _Cotswold pennycress,_ ” she calls over her shoulder, emphasising the subject of Tissaia’s thesis in a voice that suggests it’s a lover rather than a plant. In a moment, she comes into view again to take the rag from Tissaia’s hand and to hand her the broom in its place. “Spill.”

Tissaia cuts her eyes at the younger woman, adopting a scowl in reply. It’s hard to be truly cross at Triss though, so it’s half-hearted at best, and Triss doesn’t even bat an eye at it.

“Come on. What kind of excitement did you have while I was gone, hmm? Nothing’s caught on fire, I see.”

“Oh, go on,” Tissaia growls, fluttering the broom at Triss’ feet to shoo her out of the way.

Triss giggles, dancing backwards and then hopping out of the raised area before holding out the dustpan with an innocent bat of her eyelashes. “Come on, Tissaia, _share_. And I’ll tell you all about my visit home.”

“You’re going to tell me all about your visit home anyway, my dear,” Tissaia replies, giving Triss a pointed look as she knocks a few bits of stems and leaves into the dustpan, then the bin.

The simple truth is that, as ridiculous as it seems, a quick inventory had led Tissaia to the yellow roses in the cooler, and the yellow roses had led to thoughts of a certain pretty young woman with searching eyes and a nervous smile. Eyes and hair dark as pitch, shining as onyx. Tissaia passes the broom and dustpan back across to Triss, who’s watching her with a pout on her lips and a pleading look in her eyes, and then collapses back against the counter, leaning on her elbows.

She tips her head back, searching the ceiling as Triss’ excitement blossoms into actual, tangible energy.

“I gave away half a dozen yellow roses,” she says, because it is the easiest explanation, if not the clearest.

Triss moves closer again, leaning against the counter beside her, and Tissaia can feel the eyes on her—closes her own with a sigh.

“The big ones or the small ones?” Triss asks, as if that small detail changes that it happened at all. As if Tissaia ever just _gives away_ flowers. Triss is the soft one, the one who insists they respond charitably when the funeral parlour reaches out on behalf of a family without the means for elaborate arrangements.

“The large ones,” Tissaia groans.

“We charge a pound-fifty a head for those!” Yes, yes she is absolutely spring-loaded.

“I know that, Triss.”

For a moment, there's silence. Then:

“Okay, so obviously you didn’t do this to satisfy an unhappy customer. So?” At Tissaia’s silence, Triss prods her in the ribs; Tissaia yelps at the touch, side-stepping and making to skirt around Triss to the exit. Triss blocks her path, brows raised in playful challenge. “Come on—who was it? A regular? A new customer?”

“A new one. Please let me go.”

But Triss is practically squealing with excitement now, and the girl is so very sweet and yet _so_ over-invested in Tissaia’s social life that it’s more than a little ridiculous. Tissaia’s been putting up with it for three good years now though, and she’s unlikely to stop any time soon, so really, it’s a losing battle in the end.

“Tell me everything!”

“There’s nothing to _tell_ , Triss.”

“How many times has she been in?”

“Who said it was a woman?”

Triss cuts her eyes. “ _Please_.”

Tissaia huffs in reply. “Twice.”

“And you gave her the roses the second time?” Tissaia must not quite stop the wince from crossing her face, because Triss gives a little outcry. “The first time!? Okay, okay, okay, you—”

“Triss.” To say she barks the girl’s name wouldn't be quite accurate, but it's enough to make her pause. “The roses weren't for her.”

Triss is giving her the most expectant look in the world right now, still blocking Tissaia's path out from behind the counter and the shop, so Tissaia settles with her arms crossed in front of her and meets Triss’ eyes with pursed lips and a raised brow.

“Okay, so who were they for?” The question explodes out of her like it's causing her physical pain to hold it in.

“Her friend.”

“Wow! Very specific.”

Tissaia rolls her head to the side, closing her eyes again momentarily. She's going to relent, isn't she? She's going to have to relent, because Triss is wonderful and because she's not sure when she last went on a date or even flirted openly with someone, and because she _supposes_ talking about these things is good. Right? Not that there’s anything to talk about, but Triss isn’t going to give up easily, and the only real options here other than telling her what she wants to know are waiting her out and hurting her feelings, neither of which sounds particularly appealing.

So instead, Tissaia sighs heavily, tapping two fingers against the countertop. “Aren't you going to offer me an Earl Grey?”

Triss clearly takes this for the surrender it is, because she claps once, and the sound is enough to make Tissaia crack her eyes open and look at her. “Come have a cuppa, and _tell me everything_.”

Tissaia sighs, but follows Triss out from behind the counter. In just moments they are traversing the familiar path up the steps to the flat above the shop; while they take the stairs, she recounts Yennefer's first trip into the shop—how she'd let drop that she was on her way to a degree ceremony while attempting to pay for a bouquet that was very much more suitable for a memorial service; how Tissaia had sent the girl off with one of the bouquets of eight red roses, a half dozen yellow added to the mix for a more appropriate bouquet.

“Honestly, Triss, she acted as if she'd never bought flowers before; she might not even know that I should have charged her more.”

“You gave her almost ten quid of free roses on top of the sticker price, Tissaia,” Triss says as she lowers herself to the sofa, passing a steaming mug over to Tissaia, who takes it gratefully. “Nobody’s that dim. Anyway, tell me about the second time.”

“The second time, I made her a custom arrangement while she watched.”

“You didn't!”

“She asked for a recommendation; it was…” Tissaia trails off, gesturing helplessly with her right hand. “ _Endearing._ ”

“You're smitten,” Triss accuses her, eyes dancing.

“I am not, Triss. I barely know her name. And she's your age.”

“So you do know her name.”

It goes on like that. Tissaia relates what little she knows about Yennefer, and what little information she gave in return; Triss listens raptly, prodding for more details at every juncture. Somehow, she doesn’t seem too disappointed when Tissaia manages to convince her there’s nothing more to share.

When Triss can tell she's eked out every bit of information about the encounters, including what Yennefer looks like and what she was wearing, she launches into regaling the other woman of her adventures back home for an extended celebration of her mother’s birthday. Triss is the third of four children, the older two are married with children of their own, and it seems there's never a dull moment even in her immediate family. And that doesn't account for the cousins.

Two cups of tea and enough social interaction for the next two weeks later, Triss dozes off against the arm of the sofa. Tissaia chuckles softly to herself, collecting their mugs and washing up before returning to cover Triss with the throw from the back of the sofa. Triss doesn't budge; Tissaia would be incredibly surprised if she did. She knows Triss doesn’t sleep well on planes, either. Knuckles brush against the girl's temple, pushing a bit of hair away from her face with a gentle touch.

“Good night,” Tissaia murmurs.

Triss hums a wordless, thoughtless acknowledgement.

She makes her way around the flat by rote—she grew up here, after all, and knows the place like the back of her hand—turning the lights off. In the event that Triss wakes disorientated, she leaves the one over the stove on, casting shadowy light into the living area. She keeps a key to the place, mostly just to water Triss’ plants while she’s away; tonight, she uses it to bolt the door behind her before slipping out to her car in the darkness.

Tomorrow, Tissaia will work the shop again, giving Triss some time to settle back in and get over her jet-lag. After that, Tissaia will be free to go back to her usual work.

Despite the relief she feels at getting out from behind the counter of the shop, she’s looking forward to it a little less than usual.


End file.
